


all regions infinite

by CampionSayn



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied Unnamed Character Death, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining Pete the Guard, Sort Of, post-Episode: s01e02 Rapunzel's Enemy, written at 3AM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23510140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampionSayn/pseuds/CampionSayn
Summary: Stan said Monty introduced him to his wife, but ever notice that we've never SEEN that wife?
Relationships: Pete the Guard/Stan the Guard
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	all regions infinite

He had told the princess that Monty had introduced him to his wife. He had told the princess that Monty had given him flowers for his ailing mother.  
  
Stan never said that either of the two still walked among the living.  
  
Pete overheard, as he was wont to do, pacing the halls, even with his partner speaking pleasantly to Rapunzel and being completely ignorant of Eugene.  
  
He overheard, and didn’t add, and didn’t correct. Didn’t give either the golden haired princess or the former thief any additional information in later days, because they didn’t ask.  
  
Pete was loyal in that way where his strength and brains were lacking. Part of the reason he had even been brought into the guard was because he knew how to keep himself honest and to only give information when asked very specific questions.  
  
_(He had a feeling, months later, when the princess left with her friends, the Captain’s daughter and a mission of her own--that was most likely why Varian had singled Pete out with those truth cookies. He didn’t like it, exactly, but he had shrugged it off and been grateful the alchemist had only been interested in very specific information.)_  
  
Still, he’d kept his eye on Stan for days after the conversation.  
  
The man knew his own mind and never shirked his duties or allowed himself much in the way of self-pity, but Pete knew Stan as well as his own shadow and they’d been close as hands and feet for over a decade.  
  
So when Stan inevitably _did_ allow himself to shudder in his own skin, uniform put away for the night and gone off to take his thoughts away from things, Pete followed; silent and close as any shadow into the Snuggly Duckling two hours before last call.  
  
Last call rang in with Shorty gripping the handle and swinging the bell around like a town crier, Stan unable to move from where he was slumped at the bar, arm wrapped around his face and other arm around a half-finished pint of Brandy; Pete had stepped in before Vladimir did his own duty and had made to toss the off duty guard outside. Or set him in a pile of straw in the stable, Pete was never sure which.  
  
“I’ll take him home, big guy,” Pete had said with as much dignity and sureness he could bullshit his way through so late at night with the great hulk of a man right in front of him.  
  
“You sure? I could get Attila or Bruiser to help you out,” Vladimir offered, removing Stan’s arm from around his drink and helping adjust the taller man so Pete could carry him piggy-back.  
  
Pete smiled with a bit of a grit to his teeth when Vladimir let go and Stan’s whole weight settled along Pete’s own mediocre shoulders, head sagging against his neck and breath smelling of every drink he’d practically inhaled, “Nah, it’s totally okay, my place isn’t too far off and he’s really no trouble.”  
  
The thug eyed Pete’s bent knees and obviously quaking frame, but simply replied with a shrug, “If you’re sure. You have a good night.”  
  
“And make sure your boy drinks plenty ‘a water!” Shorty called from the rafters, eating a scone Pete wasn’t sure where he’d gotten so late at night, and was absolutely sure he was better off not knowing.  
  
Pete smiled again, with less grit than before, honestly appreciative of the men he was glad he’d gotten to know in the last year, “I will, thank you.”  
  
The walk back to Stan’s house gives him a small collection of minutes to try and brace for what he knows is waiting at the house.  
  
The spare key that used to be hidden under a flower pot full of small violet blooms had been residing on Pete’s own set of keys for half a year, and in spite of Stan’s mass, he pauses very little in fumbling for the metal and unlocking the door, stepping out of his boots and moving easily through the house in the moonlight the rest of the way.  
  
Of course, Pete is disappointed, but not surprised, to see things much as he’d been expecting.  
  
Dirty dishes festering in the sink, dead flowers in a vase on the kitchen table, stale bread only half covered by an old handkerchief attracting flies and a pair of grasshoppers sitting on it.  
  
Books in stacks along the staircase and other available space, some almost tripping the lanky man up so he half grabbed the banister and had to shift forward awkwardly so he wouldn’t drop Stan.  
  
Said man grumbled something about nausea and Pete held perfectly still until he felt the familiar mustache settle along his neck, gross with drool and Stan slack with return to sleep.  
  
The rest of the trip was near uneventful as he opened the door to what was technically the guest room, but Stan had made his more or less permanent cave since he couldn’t bear going into the master bedroom--that place was locked with a key Pete knew the location of, but wouldn’t touch until Stan was ready to accept Pete’s hand offered in assistance of going over things.  
  
Widowers had to move at their own pace, as the Captain had said, and Pete was in no hurry to rush his best friend through the process.  
  
Dropping Stan in the unmade bed was a relief to Pete’s shoulders, but not his knees as the brunet had to get down, kneel before the side of the bed and get off Stan’s boots and trousers. Two thuds of heavy leather and the soft sound of Pete folding the leggings perfectly complimenting Stan’s steady breathing.  
  
But then when Pete looked up to consider getting the other pajamas, there are russet, half-lidded eyes looking back at him; a hand that had half an hour before been holding a quick-fix tonic for sadness clutching at Pete’s bony wrist in earnest.  
  
_‘Oh, fantastic,’_ Pete sighed mentally, tossing the pants over into the laundry bin, already loosing his own shirt with his free hand; Stan’s grip still tight even as he maneuvered into a sitting position so Pete was between his legs.  
  
He should have learned by then. Just set him to bed, cover him with a blanket, maybe clean up the house a little, then leave.  
  
Drunk Stan _hated_ to be alone, and whatever happened one way or another, the next morning, Sober Stan wouldn't remember anyway.  
  
He never did.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm a little pissed off that there is LITERALLY nothing in the fandom revolving around these two. So this is what happens when I should be sleeping. Suffer with me.


End file.
